?Hey, Lance!? a jovial baritone called outside Obi-Wan?s chambers, even as the curlew greeted the dawn with its mournful cry. ?The sun waits for no man, o Fae Knight! Not even you!? The heavy oaken door was thumped on with some blunt object, and finally creaked open.

?Oh, you are already arisen,? Ban of Benoic grinned broadly as he peered through the gap to find Obi-Wan standing, fully clothed, and settling his swordbelt over his hips. He was used to the fitted leather of his utility belt, with its carefully designed pouches and modules, and the longer, wider strap, with the larger pouch and the appended dagger and sqword made this apparatus somewhat more tricky to adjust by himself.

?Here, let me help you with that,? Ban offered, bending his dark and shaggy head to attend to the task. His broad fingers were deft on the leather, and he grinned down at the Jedi as he worked. ?I ask you, where?s a lady when you need one, hey?? The rhetorical question was answeredonly with a curious cock of the head, the Jedi missing the reference completely.

?I?m sorry. I don?t understand...?? Obi-Wan replied hesitantly as the larger man tightened his belt by a notch.

?Ah, of course. Yet another thing done differently UnderHill, I?m sure,? Ban?s grin broadened, and his blue eyes twinkled under his black brows. ?Here, when a Knight is made, or is preparing for the tasks of the day, it is his lady?s duty to gird him thusly.? He gave the belt a last pat as he tucked away the trailing end.

?Ah.? Obi-Wan allowed some small part of his confusion to show on his face, in the hopes that the broad-shouldered Knight would elaborate.

?Have you a lady, Lance??

?The Lady of the Lake-?

Doesn?t count, I?m afraid,? Ban chuckled, ?She serves a sacred office, and may be bounden to none. You could hardly ask for a more worthy inspiration, Sir Knight, but she cannot bestow a persoanl token. I am to assume then that you have no lady, as such?? He paused, but as the expression on his companion?s face had not changed, as they continued down to the great hall.

?What should I have a lady for?? Obi-Wan asked to the Prince?s consternation. He was not used to dealing with such loaded questions from such an innocent in the ways of his culture.

?What for? Well a baser man than I might be tempted to answer that you might find more knowledge from a bird or a bee, but as I am a gentleman, or aspire to be,? he gave a roguish grin as he faced his friend, ?I shall attempt a less bawdy answer.?

Obi-Wan listened intently, hearing them like the flow of water over rough-hewn rocks. And there was a poetry to them, and to the sentiments they expressed, one that enabled the Jedi to understand this oddly archaic society somewhat better, and at a deeper level. Combined with his long talk over the night with the mysterious harper, so reminiscent of his own Master, The Jedi was gaining a much better grasp of this society, and the seemingly higher levels at which events occurred here.

?Ladies embody all that is fari, good, just, and right. We, as warriors, are but crass animals without the gentling influence of the female. So do we symbolise this debt by taking the token of a lady, and bearing it as a symbol of our subservience, doing all deeds of honour and valour for sake of her. She acts as our guide in courtesy and chivalry, condoning temperance, mercy and forethought, and frowning upon our baser urgings. She shines as a light, to guide us through our own darkness, and the darkness of the times that surround us. She is both lamp-bearer and the light of inspiration itself.?

Obi-Wan absorbed this, and swallowed his questions concerning the need for this symbology, for if a man could behave well with such guidance, how could he not motivate himself to that standard of conduct, especially when it made both logical and societal sense.

?A lady is to be held in the highest of esteem, her praises sung and her name and virtues celebrated. All deeds of honour pass through our hands to be heaped at her feet, for she is the cause of all the good w

*joins Miana and p_stotts in jumping for joy and laughing* A POST! A POST! Thanks ever so much m'lady Derisa. I haven't had a good dose of Arthurian legend in awhile I guess it's time to get out Howard Pyle and Tennyson again.

A chill beyond the natural, even on these sea-wracked Islands, awakened the Queen of the Orkneis, and she sat up silently, her cat eyes wide in the dim light of the predawn held at bay by thin parchment covering the windows. The room was cold, and she pulled the sleeping furs up over her shapely shoulders.

her bed companion mumbled in his sleep, and rolled over, tugging the coverlet around him as he did so, but Morgause felt no need for more slumber and rose, pulling on a furred over-robe and moving through the chamber towards the well-banked fire.

It was a small task to pot a coal into a clay hand-warmer, and the slender Queen savoured the warmth against her pale fingers, so reminiscent of the power she dreamed of possessing. She made her way towards the chamber door, pausing as she caught a glimpse of herself in the immense polished bronze mirror. She perused her face and form with a critical eye, finding it easier in the crisp morning air, her head unclouded by the wine and passion of the night just past.

Her youth had vanished, but her beauty remained, the sweet curves of maidenly cheek and shoulder sharpening somewhat, but only adding austerity and authority to her face, heightening her profound regal presence. Her pale skin and russet dark hair offset the rich, vibrant hazel of her eyes, and the deep crimson of her robe contrasted her colouring exquisitely. She was thirty-two years old, and only now ripening to her power?s potential.

After a satisfied smile shared with her reflection, she left the bed-chamber of the visiting King, her husband?s ally, Uriens of Gore, and ghosted through the outer ward room, where his guards and attendants slept, puncturing the chill air with their snores and grumbles, the sounds of men tired by a long journey and heavy by meat and mead. Her small glamour to disguise her identity, her only concession to discretion, did not appear to be necesary.

She did not feel the weight of a gaze upon her back as she left the room, her husband?s second son watching her with calculation and wariness in his storm grey eyes.

The stone corridors bore silent witness to her passage as Morgause, half-sister to the Isle of the Mighty?s King, climbed the steps to her private tower, there to settle in place a darkling spell, and watch the Dark Tide?s evil pulsing from the vantage point of a greedy gull flying high above Kernow?s rocky crags.